true regret
by GingerGleek
Summary: Shelby/Rachel mother/daughter one-shot. Rated T to be safe. / The word 'regret' means something wholly different to you now than it did when you were but a child.


**A/N:** Wow, I can't believe the roll I'm on right now! A character piece and a oneshot last night, and another oneshot tonight. Woohoo!

This was inspired by the episode 'Dream On', and the Shelby/Rachel - mother/daughter storyline. Bits of this are inspired by Shelby's mini-speech to Jesse in the episode, others come from my muse.

I really hope you enjoy!

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You still remember that day.

It had started out normal . . . or as normal a day can be for someone 8 ½ months pregnant. (So by normal, you mean bloated and aching and feeling like a beached whale; you still find it a little hard to believe that this was once normal for you.) You were on your way over to the Misters' Berry (it was just around the corner from where you were living at the time, though the commute took longer than it should have because of your pathetic waddling) when you felt the first stab of pain. Somewhere deep down in your mind you could hear your subconscious screaming "THIS IS IT! SHE'S COMING!" but you weren't prepared to accept that. It was still too early . . . you weren't ready yet. So you forcefully passed them off in your mind as Braxton Hicks.

You would have loved to keep pretending, but you were hit two more times by contractions before you reached your destination, and as you rang the doorbell you felt a sudden rush of water and something wet and cold coating your shoes. Your face was the perfect mask of shock and horror as James opened the door.

You think that he called for Isaac and ushered you to their car, but it was a little lost in the endless sea of pain. As was your trip to Lima General Hospital, except for your pained moans and shouts of, "Sweet Jesus, can't you drive any FASTER, J!" You were directed hastily into the hospital by Isaac as James parked the car. He shouted for a nurse, and three came running as soon as the words "pregnant woman" and "labor" came tumbling out of his mouth. You were gently lowered into a wheelchair and moved to the maternity ward.

The pain was almost unbearable. It felt as though you were being forced apart into two pieces (and you kind of were). But you wanted a natural birth for your (not your, James' and Isaac's) little girl, and declined the epidural. You wished you could've changed that decision at least ten million times in the next eighteen hours.

Either James or Isaac was at all times. Thinking back, they must have been exhausted . . . but then you push that from your mind, because _you_ were the one in labor, pushing a human being out of your _lady parts_; so what if they were awake for a really long time? They held your hands through contractions, and kept you breathing when the doctor yelled, "Push!"

They were wonderful to you, and you know it. And even though you know it's irrational (since you wouldn't have even gotten pregnant without them, and you knew what you were getting into from the start) you can't help but resent them a little bit (or a lot).

Yes, you knew what you were getting into . . . but you were young and delusional, and you didn't think it would be nearly as hard as it was to give up the baby girl that had literally been a part of you for 8 ½ months.

You never even got to hold her. She grew inside of you, and you've never had any physical contact with her outside of your womb. All you got was one glorious glimpse of the most perfect being you've ever had the pleasure of being in the same room with. Everything about her was amazing, from the clear tone of her cry to the way she opened up her wide eyes and looked right at you with what you could've sworn was a smile (but you logically know most likely wasn't).

You never did make it big in New York, which is ironic because that's why you accepted the role of surrogate in the first place (you needed to money for rent). It's not that you didn't try; it's not even that you weren't talented. (You still are, as a matter of fact.) But hitting the notes isn't everything, and after losing your daughter you lost your flare for performance. It didn't feel right anymore, and you found that you didn't have any more emotion to put into it. Your career that-never-really-was fizzled out quickly, and you made a quiet return to Ohio where you got your teaching degree and accepted a job at Carmel as a Glee club coach.

You wish that you had made it big in the Big Apple; you wish that you were on stage right now performing and receiving enthusiastic applause. You wish that you weren't stuck in Ohio. You wish that you were able to seek her out before she turned eighteen. But none of those things do you truly regret.

The word 'regret' means something wholly different to you now than it did when you were but a child. Now, the only thing that you fully and truly regret with every part of you – no matter how small or insignificant – is the way you gave away your daughter without even really having a claim on her in the first place.

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